The Rigors of the Bering Sea
by krabbe-fiske
Summary: DEADLIEST CATCH - It's January, Opilio season, and with a winter storm encroaching on the crab grounds, Sig Hansen, captain of the F/V Northwestern, hopes to come out on top, even if it means leaving port on bad luck Friday to face the VAST Bering Sea.
1. Friday is bad juju

Intro/Disclaimer: This being my first try at the genre of 'Deadliest Catch' fan fiction, I hope it all comes out right, people enjoy it and I get reviews. I DO NOT own the Hansens, or any of the crew of the F/V Northwestern. I make no profit from this work. I have no money. Please don't take my pocket lint! NOTE: Italics denotes a dream session.

The Rigors of the Bering Sea

A storm was lingering on the horizon. The sky was a murky mix of dark grays and blacks. To make matters worse, it was Friday. As the superstition went, it was bad luck to leave port on this day. Many a crab boat claimed that they experienced mechanical breakdowns and worse when leaving on that fateful day. With the weather broadcast over the radio promising freezing spray, 40 foot seas, snow and rain, it wasn't looking promising. With the chance of the ice from the far north compromising choice Opilio fishing grounds, the choice was made, Friday or no Friday, the Northwestern was going to fish, weather be damned.

Meanwhile, up in the wheelhouse, Captain Sig Hansen, was anything but ready. Cluttered on the control board before him, was his spiral notebook cluttered with ink denoting weather patterns and nautical positions. A kit-kat bar lay unopened near the throttle control. A coffee cup sat half empty on the wooden ledge of the window, to his right. He was oblivious to the commotion occurring on his deck behind him. Edgar and Norman, his brothers, were busy getting a few last things prepared before they left port, along with deckhands, Jake Anderson, Matt Bradley, and Nick Mavar, Jr. Edgar was manning the hydros getting the last pots stacked on board, as Nick, atop the stack, secured them down with chains. Matt helped Jake attend to the rigorous hell that was preparing bait. In as short as a few hours, the fishing vessel, Northwestern, would be steaming from port and heading out to sea, out to greet a massive winter storm. Little did the crew know what perils laid ahead for their captain?

_Rain slathered a windshield, as a pair of wipers sloshed wildly back and forth in an endless battle to clear the glass. Three dark splotches huddled inside, one behind the driver's seat, one in the passenger, and the final in the rear seat. Lightning flashed outside the rain slicked windows, not enough to reveal the faces of those in the vehicle. The sounds of twisted metal rang in his ears, cries of pain mingled with the chaos. A body lay, half ejected from a truck's windshield, the torso splayed on the crumpled hood. A smaller car lay a few yards away, parts torn off from the jolt of the impact were scattered between both vehicles. A shadow enveloped a face, cheek down in a puddle of congealing blood. Thunder boomed in the distance, as an explosion rocked the cab of the truck, sending it bursting into flames, enveloping the deceased. The noise was deafening, the roar of the fire, the fit that Mother Nature was giving, nothing seeming to drown out the flames, no matter how hard the rain fell. Just then, a sound of a door slammed shut…_

The wheelhouse door directly behind the captain's chair slammed shut.

"Hey, rise and shine, Princess Toadstool!"

Edgar's voice broke the silence. Ripped from his trance like dream state, Sig's eyelids flipped open, deep cobalt blue eyes slid to the far left and quickly narrowed, as he whirled in the seat, determined to give the unlucky invader of his sleep a piece of his mind. A native Norwegian curse fled his lips, as a palm scrubbed at his face, and then slid up into his tousled dark platinum blonde hair. Edgar came into view, one hand in the front pocket of his Helly Hansen emblazoned maroon hoodie, and the other stuffed into the pocket of his blue jeans. Un-thwarted by his older brothers' foul mood and curse, Edgar continued.

"The crabs aren't gonna haul themselves into those pots!"

Edgar made a gesture with his arm, waving it back towards the deck of the boat.

"We got to motivate them and the only way I know how, is to get his boat in gear, dude. C'mon, it's bad enough it's Friday, I'm looking at biting the heads off of two herrings."

He emphasized this, as he held up two heavily calloused fingers in Sig's face. A gravelly chuckle rose from Sig's chest, at his brother's dedication to the cause. It was a tradition to start the season with someone biting the head off of one of the bait herring. That task usually fell on younger brother, and Deck Boss, Edgar Hansen. Withdrawing his hand from his hoodie, Edgar scratched his nails against his brown whiskered goatee chin, and heaved a sigh, taking in Sig's wrinkled blue denim, long sleeved, Northwestern polo, before shooting a glance out the forward wheelhouse windows. The storm was beckoning them to come join it, and Edgar turned his face away, shaking his head and crossing the floor to the stairs that descended down into the galley.

"We're in for an ass kicking." Sig heard Edgar say as he departed, leaving the frazzled skipper to himself.

The radio crackled, as a familiar voice came over the airwaves.

"Hey, Sig, you guys heading out? Cause that storm is bearing down on us, and we only have a small window of opportunity. I bet I can beat you out there. What do you say?"

It was no other than Andy Hillstrand, of the Time Bandit. In the back round, Sig could hear the cackle of Andy's older brother, Jonathan. Were they going to beat him to the prized fishing grounds? He knew the Northwestern had the power and speed to one up most of the fleet's boats. The Northwestern was fashioned as a cutter, being able to 'cut' through the worst seas with ease and even some ice. Feeling his pride in his ship and crew bubble up in him, Sig, shifted his jean clad ass in the seat, a tad bit on the cocky side.

"You'll have to jam down on that gear, Andy."

He paused and took a glance out of the side window, noting the Time Bandit already heading out of the harbor, and ready to do their traditional bad luck breaking, 'Swedish' circles. That was their cure to break the bad ju-ju of leaving port on a Friday.

"While you're wasting time doing circles over there, I'll be steaming past you, on the way to the chosen grounds. I'll see you back at Dutch. Make sure you got that money ready."

Sig ended the conversation with a rough chuckle, before hanging the mic back up, while he engaged the throttle and eased the Northwestern from Dutch Harbor. All joking aside, he couldn't shake that edgy uneasiness that lingered after that dream he had. It wasn't the way he wanted to go into Opilio season, heavy with jitters and physical exhaustion. All in a days work, he had to remind himself. This was his profession and he'd be damned if he'd let Mother Nature ruin his plans.


	2. Dead in the water

Disclaimer: This chapter gets graphic with bad language and violence. Again, I don't own the F/V Northwestern, or her crew. I make NO money from this. All I have is my lint. Review please!

Dark chocolate eyes peered across the pitch black sea. Even with glow of the sodium lights on the white mast, it was nearly impossible to make out an outline of a far away boat, let alone the bright orange buoy bags of sunken crab pots. Edgar sighed, leaning against the blue railing of the Northwestern. Behind him, he could hear the continuous swoosh of a knife slicing through the belly scales of the bait cod, quickly followed by the growling of the bait grinder machine, and ending it all with a plastic sounding snap, as the newly ground up chunks of cod and herring made their way into small white perforated containers. In a crazy way, the sounds soothed him, causing pre-season jitters to subside. Besides the presence of Jake Anderson, Edgar Hansen was alone on deck. Inside the warm confines of the Northwestern, Nick was resting in his bunk, no doubt passing the time reading a novel. While, Matt chose to use his time wisely, whipping up a roast with a side of red potatoes. One of his blue gloved hands lifted from the rail, diving south to rifle through the jacket pocket of his yellow rain gear. Extracting a pack of cigarettes, he tapped a smoke into the other hand, quickly jamming it between his lips, as he pocketed the pack, before fishing out the lighter. An orange glow flared at the tip, as Edgar took a long drag, letting the smoke ease out of his nose upon exhale.

Sounds of footsteps on the wooden deck alarmed him, causing Edgar to turn at the hip, as he shot a look over his shoulder. Decked out in orange rain gear and a blue Helly Hansen base ball cap, Norman Hansen, calmly walked across the center of the lightly rolling deck, on his way to the stack of pots on the stern. Idly, Edgar watched his brother, as he busied himself with re-checking the chains. Norman had his routines and was happy to keep himself useful, without being at the center of attention. Good ol' Norm, Edgar thought, as he turned his face back to the black, never ending void surrounding them. With a booming drum beat of thunder erupting above his head, Edgar silently prayed for their safety, he trusted his skipper, implicitly with life and limb and knew above all, he had faith that Sig wouldn't purposely sail them into inescapable danger.

Up in the wheelhouse, Sig navigated through the choppy seas with an unsteady hand over the throttle. In the back of his mind, the grainy, black and white images from his fragmented dream played out like a noir film with cut out and missing scenes. Salt water streaked the windows, with each pummeling spray, as the Northwestern's bow bobbed up and down, parting the sea with variable ease. Although he couldn't pinpoint a single face down to anything recognizable, he was left with a creepy nagging sensation. It was a familiar feeling, but one he couldn't narrow down. Reaching over his throttle hand with his left, Sig lifted his white Northwestern mug to his thin lips, tipping his head back and taking a healthy swig of the thick mud that was his coffee. Straight black, minus any milk or creamer, just the way he liked it. As the thick concoction coated his throat on its way down south, the captain returned the cup to its spot on the window ledge, before jamming his fingers into his left jean pocket. Clutching a box of Marlboros, he flipped the top and extracted a cigarette, before tossing the box onto the control board. Fitting it between his lips, he wasted no time firing up the end, and taking a long, deep inhale. As if the weather wasn't enough to fray his nerves and put him on edge, the undecipherable dream was the icing on the cake. The scent of a cooking roast wafted up the stairs from the galley below, temporarily distracting his addled brain. Deep in his gut, he felt a twisting pang, as his stomach churned. Was it hunger, or simply yet another symptom of his distress? Stalwart on his mission to guide the Northwestern through the storm to get to the Opilio grounds, Sig denied the break his stomach most likely yearned for, and instead focused intently on the set course. It started as a drizzle at first, but soon turned into a raging downpour, as Sig reached up and unhooked a mic from a radio.

"If there's anyone out on deck, I'd advise you to get your ass inside now," his voice boomed over the loudhailer.

Out on deck, Edgar obeyed his captain's orders and hurried inside, where he shed his wet rain gear, hanging it up on a wall hook, next to the washer machine in the hall, before joining Matt in the galley. Jake and Norman weren't far behind, repeating Edgar's routine in the hall, before getting a bite to eat. Sig tapped his ash into the black ashtray that lay beside his coffee cup on the window ledge. The tremor that was evident in his right hand had spread to his left. Stubbornly, he refused to acknowledge it as a problem, instead, he set his jaw, gritting his teeth together, and even tapped the throttle further up. Beyond the glass, the cold wind picked up, sending the waves into a frenzy of movement, throwing the vessel to and fro. In the chair, the building seas rocked the captain, as they hammered into the sides repetitively.

Chancing a look away from the angry Bering Sea, Sig checked the face of his gold nugget watch. The hands told him it was early Saturday morning, three o' clock to be exact. The next few minutes played out like they were in slow-mo. As his head lifted, he caught a glimpse of a large towering shadow out of the corner of his right eye. His heart frantically hammered against his rib cage, cobalt eyes widening as realization hit him. A monster of a rouge wave, barreled down on the port side of the vessel. The forty foot wall of salt water, blasted against the rail, tearing the coiling bucket from the deck boards, shearing the bolts that formally held it, clear off. Wooden planks of the deck were at the mercy of the storm, buckling before breaking free. The crab sorting table didn't stand a chance, as it too, like the coiler, was erupted from its former spot, forced across the deck to smash into the far wall. The Northwestern listed dangerously to her starboard side, nearly ninety degrees. Immediately, the alarm down in the engine room started blaring, piercing the ear drums of everyone on board, putting the danger of the situation into high gear. Down below, the crew was in mad dash to clamor into their survival suits. Every minute counted, as they feared this trip spelt the end of the Northwestern and her crew's fishing career.

As the vessel pitched violently to the left, Sig was thrown from his chair, the mug following him, emptying its contents, before it sailed into his right temple. Yelping a curse, as it nicked his skull, he continued his sideways skid across the carpet, as the far wall of the wheelhouse rushed up to greet his left side and face. Something in his face snapped, and warmth dribbled down his left nostril. Frantic, of the boat and his crews welfare, Sig, clamored to right himself, fighting against the severe angle to reach the controls. Hoisting himself back into his chair, the captain fought to take control of his perilous dilemma. Lips were barely parted, as he took in labored breaths, his heart doing double time in his chest. Shouts could be heard down below it was Edgar, ordering the crew. Easing back on the throttle, and then jamming it forward, Sig hoped to right the vessel, before it capsized. Wetness trickled down from just above his right temple, from his hair line. Absently, he wiped at it with the sleeve of his blue denim, Northwestern polo. Pulling the arm away from the side of his head, he tucked his chin down and swallowed hard eyeing the fabric. The majority of his sleeve was a dark crimson blotch. Eyelids fluttered, and Sig shook his head hard, in an effort to stall the encroaching unconsciousness. Out of nowhere, a second wave pummeled the port side, miraculously righting the vessel. Short of celebrating, the captain reached up, swiping the mic from the radio.

"E-Edgar, everyone okay? Edgar?" Sig's hoarse and shaken voice boomed over the loudhailer.

His temples pounded with a soaring headache, as blood trickled down the right side of his face in rivulets. Squeezing his eyes shut, he struggled to fight off the overwhelming swell of blackness that threatened his consciousness, as the rain outside, morphed into sleet. The radio crackled above him.

"This is the Coast Guard Kodiak Alaska, and we have a report of an EPIRB going off from this vessel. Fishing vessel, Northwestern do you copy?" The male voice asked over the radio.

It was soon joined by others, as the news spread like wild fire across the fleet.

"Northwestern, Northwestern, This is the Time Bandit, do you copy? Sig are you there?" the concerned voice of Andy Hillstrand interjected.

Soon, the radio was swamped with captains. Keith Colburn was the next to jump on the radio.

"Northwestern, this is the Wizard, Hey man, you out there?"

Slouched over, leaning to the right, the captain lay limp, unaware and unable to respond to the radio. Dark glossy eyes were nothing but mere slits. His head was cocked at a right angle, exposing the left side of his neck, the jugular vein clearly leaping with a slowing pulse just under the pale milky skin. Dark blonde platinum hair was matted on the right, a smear of red marked where the side of his face had slipped and rubbed against the window. Frozen in position, his fingers were still clutched like talons around the handle of the throttle control. The roar of the engine idled behind him. Footsteps echoed off the wooden stairs, as Edgar, dressed in a survival suit, launched him self out of the stairwell, and into the wheelhouse.

"Sig, Sig what the hell," he paused, as his brown orbs widened in shock, taking in the unresponsive body.

In a flash, he was at his brother's side, a palm cupping the other's shoulder. Shaking him awake was brushed aside, when Edgar's eyes swept across Sig's face, noting the bloody nose, the developing bruises around the eyes and registering the dark smear on the window behind it. He feared for his captain's life as he reached up, taking the radio mic in hand. Just as he was about to press the button to send a transmission, a groan rose up from somewhere deep in Sig's chest. Dropping the mic, he lowered his head, pressing an ear to the other's chest. A muffled slow thump, thump, thump, thump was heard.

"C'mon, damn it, fight this," Edgar heard himself cry out in frustration.

"Don't you dare die on me?"


	3. Wanted Dead or Alive

Disclaimer: I don't own the Northwestern or her crew, sadly. I make NO profit from this. I have NO money. Only have some pocket lint. My estimation is that this chapter is going to be HUGE compared to the previous ones. The ideas kept flowing and I just kept writing. Hope it all turned out for the best. Thank you kindly for the reviews. Keep them coming!

"This is the Coast Guard Kodiak Alaska, requesting any nearby vessels in the area to assist in the search and rescue efforts for the fishing vessel Northwestern. We are currently in transit to their last known coordinates, projected from the EPRIB. Coordinates are: sixty degrees longitude, twenty five degrees latitude, northwest of St. Paul Island. This is the Coast Guard Kodiak Alaska, out."

Edgar's chocolate eyes drifted north to gaze at the radio. An icy shiver traveled the length of his spine. He had never thought in years, that their boat would ever be the subject of a Coast Guard rescue, let alone ever have their captain, his older brother, in the grips of such a dire life or death situation. He didn't want them to air lift Sig anywhere. Not if he had anything to do with it. Focusing back on the issue at hand, Edgar stared back into the others bruised and battered face, watching as Sig's eyelids fluttered open to mere slits.

"E-Eggar…"

Sig's voice croaked in demand. A wet cough wracked the skippers body, as a thin trickle of red oozed out over his bottom lip. Started, frantic hands, grabbed at Sig's shoulders, propping him up at full upright position. The last thing Edgar wanted was to have him choking to death.

"T-Tell them that we are f-fine, call off the search. I'm not dead, damn it. "

Stubborn, of course, thought Edgar, as he reached for the dangling mic, but before he could, Sig snatched it away from him. The captain's right hand, which had been over the throttle control all along, sprang to life again.

"Coast Guard, this is the Northwestern."

"This is the Coast Guard Kodiak Alaska, we copy you Northwestern."

"We took a rouge wave, knocked our EPIRB off the starboard."

"ETA is 15 minutes, Northwestern."

"Not necessary. We just lost the EPIRB. The crew is fine, the boat is in,"

Sig shifted in his seat, twisting it around to the right. Cobalt blue eyes struggled to peer out the frosted glass of his wheelhouse door. The deck boards had sustained damage. The powerful strength of the rogue wave had splintered some up from their bolts. From his vantage point, he couldn't see the coiler bucket which had been torn from the deck and tossed into the bait prep area. Turning his chair forward, Sig cleared his throat, lifting his right hand from the throttle control to wipe his sleeve across his lower lip. Looking on at his brother's side, Edgar Hansen, shook his head in disbelief. Here was his skipper, obviously battered and injured, calling off a rescue from the Coast Guard. Pride or not, he'd like to assure the health and well being of all of his crew, most importantly his captain.

"She's still sea worthy. Call of the search. This is the Northwestern, out."

"Copy that, Northwestern. This is the Coast Guard Kodiak Alaska, returning to base, out."

Edgar yanked back the hood on the survival suit, and ran a hand through his short brown hair. He simply rolled his eyes at his brother's antics. He tossed his hands out at his sides in an exasperated expression, the palms slapping the sides of his survival suit clad thighs. He turned on a heel, heading across the floor, toward the stairs. He paused half way there, his eyes down cast at the carpet. Dark blotches dotted the fabric, randomly spaced out. Lifting his chin, he followed the trail that ended at the base of the captain's chair. He absently wondered, what pain his stalwart brother had endured, what details he was holding back to save face. In the end, it didn't matter, if there was truly something wrong, he'd have confided in him. Glancing first back at Sig, and then out the forward wheelhouse windows, he gauged the thickness of the ice build up on the bow. It was his job to rally the crew to bust the ice off, before it spelt doom for the weight of the boat.

"I'm going to go rally the team to go bust some ice off this boat. If you think for a second that I'm going to go 'Rug Doctor' on these stains, you got another thing coming, brother. You made the mess, you clean it!"

Sig heard Edgar's descending footsteps on the wooden stairs, and let out a deep sigh. He couldn't deny the pain, he just chose to suffer and ignore it for the time being. They needed their skipper. They depended on him to find the crab. Their lively hoods were based on how much they could haul and how fast they could do it in. Checking his watch, Sig figured he'd have to turn and burn, to be able to make his quota deadline of two Fridays from now. Chunks of ice fell down past his windows from the roof, some splashing down into the chilly thirty eight degree water, and others collided onto the bow. Behind him, he could hear the combined efforts of his crew assembling to attack the ice from all angles. They'd have to chip a large percentage off to make deck work safe and efficient. Within a few hours, the rails had been uncovered, as well as the block, and the deck. Work on the broken deck boards started soon after. It was a must before a single pot could be dropped.

Out on the horizon, the sun was rising, casting a shimmering glow over the choppy white caps of the sea. The storm that had barraged the Northwestern from almost every angle had dissipated, moving down south. What remained was a light flutter of snow flakes and the ever present freezing spray. The relatively calm waters allowed Sig to maneuver the vessel without further worry of harm, to the chosen grounds.

Nine hours would pass before they encroached on their spot, this normally would have given the crew some down time, that was, if Sig hadn't had them crash for two hours, before ordering them back on deck to battle the ice once again. This time, they were hacking their pots free from the winter's death grip. In no time, night fall greeted them, as the Northwestern slowed her engines down to half speed; they had finally arrived at what Sig hoped to be their spring board to good fishing.

In the glow of the mast's bright sodium lights, Edgar hoisted a dead herring up into the air, clutched tightly in his blue gloved hand. The Northwestern had braved sailing through the hardest part of the storm and had reached their chosen grounds. Deck Boss, Edgar Hansen was situated next to the hydraulics nearest to the rail. Before a single pot splashed down into the icy depths of the Bering Sea, he was determined to keep with tradition and make with the herring.

"This is an offer to the 'crab gods'."

He paused and grinned to him self, throwing his yellow hoodie covered, rain geared head back, eyes closed.

"May they look over us and turn our luck around."

In one fluid motion, the herring was introduced to Edgar Hansen's brave pallet, scales, organs and bones separating with one solid bite. Off to his right, he heard young Jake Anderson make a choking sound. Spitting the dislocated head to the deck, not one to miss anything, Edgar quickly spoke up.

"You keep that up over there, and I'm going to challenge you to eat the eyeballs out of every head I bite off."

Silence spread over them, and he nodded his head, looking over in Jake's direction.

"Make yourself useful, Junior, and get me two more."

Jake answered him with a quick "Roger", as he crossed the deck to the bait bucket. Retrieving two he passed them off to Edgar.

"Sig's going to need all the luck he can get."

Turning his head, he peered up at the wheelhouse door. Thrusting the fish filled fist into the air, he shouted out.

"This is for you brother!"

The fish and its head were dis-joined, in record time, before Jake interrupted.

"So, you saved Sig?"

Apparently, talk of the incident had been leaked to the rest of the crew. Someone had shared, he didn't know who but knew now the cat was out of the bag and he'd have some explaining to do. Tossing what remained of the fish to the boards below, an absent swipe of his yellow rain jacket sleeve to his bloodied lips was taken, before Edgar reloaded his 'herring hand.'

"If I wouldn't have been there, dude, he would have been gone. I mean d-e-a-d gone."

Making a sweep of the deck with his brown orbs, he notices all eyes are on him. Content that he was the center of attention, he continued, raising the third and final offering to his mouth. Blunt teeth descended upon scaled flesh, and bones popped as Edgar yanked his wrist hard right. The head and body joined the scattered previous remains on the deck floor.

"I hope when we get into dock, they don't confuse him for a raccoon with those shiners he got."

A chuckle rose from Matt, who stood a foot away across from Edgar.

"If they even tried, I think Sig would give them a matching pair."

The radio buzzed above Norman, as he stood patiently beside the answer button to the loudhailer. Sig's voice boomed over the chilly air.

"Are you guys finished with your group therapy session?"

Edgar narrowed his eyes and shot a dirty look towards the wheelhouse.

"Don't make me have to drag Dr. Phil out here to get you guys motivated."

Nick, Matt and Jake broke off and went to get into position. Norman joined Matt, standing on the opposite sides, directly across from one another at the pot launcher. Nick went to the stern to get on top of the stack and help unchain each pot as needed. Jake headed to the bait area to arm himself with plastic boxed herring and the sliced up cod.

"That's okay. See if this robot will be of service the next time his batteries run out."

Edgar muttered under his breath, as he guided the crane towards the stern in preparation.

Up inside the dark heated wheelhouse, Captain Sig Hansen, was carefully manning the Northwestern, in choppy seas, one hand lingering over the jog stick and the other coiled around the throttle control. With help earlier from his brother, Edgar, Sig had stripped himself of the stained Northwestern denim shirt, and washed his face and hair free of any and all remnants of blood. Bleary eyed, he swayed in his seat, not from the motion of the Bering Sea, but because of his weary, exhausted body. He was pushing himself to be able to make it through the forty pot string. It was all in a test to him self to prove that he could do it. He knew Edgar would think his determination racked up to brotherly rivalry, nothing more and nothing less. He'd be right to think that. Lifting his left hand to his face, he scrubbed at his tired eyes. Pain spiked and blossomed, forcing his hand to retract, the simple effort to blinking, causing his tough exterior to crack. Wetness instantly gleamed in the corners of his orbs. Thin, salty twin trails streaked down his cheeks, and he sniffled, un-waking the previously dormant swelled, broken and bruised nose. It all drove him to take his eyes off the task at hand, and crush his face into his palms. A muffled string of obscenities both in his native Norwegian and English melded together, as he fought to take control. Edgar kept the rest of the crew in the dark regarding their captain's current physical state. Sig thought it best not to burden their minds with him, and instead leave it open and ready for fishing. After all, that's what truly mattered to him.

A calloused pointer finger repeatedly depressed the pot launcher button. Buzz after buzz, after buzz signaled the drop of each pot. The crew slaved, sleeplessly into the wee hours of the morning. It wasn't until the sun rose, issuing them yet another day, Sig granted them a break, allowing Matt to whip up something for them to sustain themselves with, and before they knew it, they had their gear back on. A whipping winter wind greeted them as they filed back onto the deck. Merely going through the motions, each deck hand manned their chosen duties. Edgar on the hydraulics hoisted each pot from the stack and gently lowered it onto the launcher. Matt and Norman worked together, taking the shots of line out, and readying it for Jake. Jake wiggled his way into each one, hanging both a gutted bait cod and plastic cases of herring, to the center interior of each pot. This mundane routine continued without hesitation, until the Northwestern was back on her first string, ready to haul them and check their bounty.

"First pot's on the bow."

Young, Jake Anderson was on the rail, the one chosen to take up the job of throwing the hook. The waves had grown in intensity over the last hour; perhaps another storm was brewing, catching them all by surprise. The hook sailed into the sea, one, two, three times. Nearby, on the hydros, Edgar groaned.

"Miss again, and I'm going toss you over board."

Jake didn't catch the humor in the sentence. Clenching his jaw, his face wet from the constant dousing of spray, Jake concentrated on throwing. The rope fluttered in the wind, as the hook touched down, missing the orange buoy bags by inches. Undaunted by his failure, the youngster pulled the rope back in, retracting the hook, and set himself up for another go. It was then that the alarm blared, piercing eardrums of every one on board. Shouts rose on the deck, causing Sig to jerk his chair around, his eyes flying to the wheelhouse door, glued to the commotion just beyond the frosted glass. What he saw, caused him to vault out of his chair, zipping as fast as he could to the door and bolting outside. He didn't stop until his knuckles were white, his fingers tightly wound around the rail.

"Someone get me a life saver, now!" Edgar yelled, Matt scuttled across the slick deck, retrieving the life saver from its hanging spot on the wall, and returned to the rail. Snatching the life ring from Matt, Edgar threw it into the rising sea. Jake in shock from the introduction to the bone chilling water, fumbled trying in earnest to reach the life ring. With each rising and falling wave, Jake's body was harder to detect. Edgar's heart hammered in his chest, his adrenaline high, as he jumped on the hydros and aimed the crane out over the water, the hook a few feet from Jake's reach. The life saver was finally clamored onto and Jake strained one arm to reach the hanging crane hook, as the other struggled to keep him buoyant and attached to the ring.

"It's colder than a witch's tit out here, Edgar. "You're going to want to hurry. He's going to be a Popsicle in no time."

Sig stressed the importance of quick action, his breath a billowing smoke, as he shouted from his perch overlooking the rolling and pitching deck. All remaining members of the crew were on the rail, ready to be of assistance when Jake was pulled aboard. Edgar managed to get the hook around the life ring and started slowly and carefully hauling the water logged Jake out of the icy grip of the Bering Sea. As the crane withdrew over the deck, it lowered, Matt and Nick were there to brace and catch an unresponsive Jake.

"Get him inside, strip him, and get him warmed up, now!"

Sig shouted out, a tremor of worry edging his voice, as he turned on his heel, retreating in to safety, warmth and shelter of his wheelhouse. Easing back into his chair, he ran a trembling hand through his dark platinum blonde hair. He'd give him self a few minutes, give the crew some time, before descending to the galley to check up on Jake Anderson. His knuckle wrapped the wooden window shelf, as he said a silent prayer, hoping beyond hope, he wouldn't have to haul back more than crab to port. He just didn't know if his fraying nerves could take it.


	4. Heartbreak and Ice

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Hansens, F/V Northwestern, or claim any ownership of Discovery Networks. This is all done for self enjoyment and that of others. **Please read and review.**

It had all played out like a horrible dream. He wondered if it were bad luck to have said that. Edgar rapped his bare knuckles against the galley's dinner table. His unflinching brown orbs kept focused on their latest 'catch'. Jake sat, shivering at the table, slightly doubled over, and naked, wrapped tightly in a blue thermal blanket. The deck boss couldn't shake the thought that he was personally responsible for this near tragic event. A hand patted his back, causing Edgar to turn his head and shoot a questioning eye over his shoulder.

"I know what your thinking, it's not your fault."

Edgar gave a heavy sigh as an answer, turning his attention back to the shaking frame of Jake. Nick was only trying to help, he knew that.

"He's going to be OK."

Matt came up from behind Edgar, and made a bee-line for the kitchen. He retrieved a dirty white mug, emblazoned with a blue logo of the F/V Northwestern, from the sink, and crossed the floor to the coffee machine beside the refrigerator. Pouring himself a cup, he then added a large amount of sugar to it, then turned, watching the uptight Edgar from afar. Footsteps codded down the stairs from the wheelhouse. A bleary eyed Sig, entered the galley, clearing his throat. Edgar's face flew to his older brothers.

"Take wheel watch. I need a break."

Sig's gruff voice crackled. A break was an understatement. The captain was walking dead, mussed blond hair, blood shot blues, and a wrinkled shirt. Off a nod, Edgar cleared out of the room, still dressed in the orange survival suit, ascended up to the wheel house. Stripping the suit off in the wheelhouse, tossing it onto the bench seat behind the controls, he assessed the crowded control board. It was littered with a black ashtray, a few Kit-Kat bar rappers, an empty white coffee mug, and a pack of Marborols. Shaking his head at his brothers diet, he lifted his sight to peer out the icy windows. The Bering Sea was choppy, settling down from an earlier storm. A set of orange buoy bags bobbed with the white caps, signaling the first of a forty pot string. With his right hand on the throttle, his left reached up, snagging the mike for the loudhailer.

"Pot's on the bow. Bust these forty out, I'll think about giving you an hour down time."

Norman was the first to re-suit, followed by Nick. Matt lingered, finishing up his coffee, before replacing the mug back in the sink. Approaching Jake, Matt placed his hand in his salt soaked hair, playfully ruffling it.

"We'll save a spot for you out on deck, when you're ready."

With that said, he suited up in the hallway, before the chilly January air blasted his face, as he rejoined the Hell outside. Sig stood off to the far side of the table, a scrutinizing stare affixed on his youngest crew member. Was the Northwestern struck with a case of bad luck? A highly superstitious mind marked it as such. Feeling uneasy all the sudden, Jake jerked his head toward Sig.

"Go to sleep. I'm not going to get better with you staring at me like that."

Sig felt the sting in the words and began to turn on his heel towards his stateroom. There wasn't any need for discussion. Jake would heal in time with the aid of the rooms heat. The skipper hoped he'd be able to get some shut eye, minus the disjointed dream visions, so he could be somewhat refreshed before relieving Edgar. Closing the door firmly behind him, Sig was overcome with a heavy yawn, as he stretched his tired arms over his head. It was then he was reminded of how drained he actually was. In the wheel house, numerous times he would ignore the aches and pains of muscles and aging bones, instead to focus headstrong to the task at hand. Collapsing down onto his bunk, Sig scrubbed a calloused palm across his pale face. With a grunt, he layed down, blinking bleary blue's up at the rolling ceiling. From beyond his room, Sig heard another door shut, just as his eyelids descended.

"Did you guys miss me?"

It was evident they were in dire need of a forth man. It was nearly impossible to run a deck with three hands, yet these crabbing veterans, could pull it off. Nick turned at the voice, relief showing on his face, as he watched Jake join his extended family. Carefully, the icy deck was crossed, and Jake grabbed hold of the right side of the pot, as it came over the rail. Norman on the hydros, lowered the pot to the launcher and engaged the dogs to keep it in place. The door hatch was lifted up with Nick's help as Matt, waited at the sorting table. Norm shook the pot, and the sight of the Opies brightened up lagging spirits. Hoops and hollers rang out, as Matt began to measure the legal keepers. The numbers were staggering. Across the deck, Norman, relieving the duty's of the hydros to Nick, pressed a blue gloved finger to a button, sending the count in his native Norwegian over the loudhailer to Edgar.

On the notebook, a pencil scribbled the three digit number, 102. A smile pulled at his lips, proud that they for the moment were on excellent fishing. Edgar throttled down, as he approached the next buoy. A mighty yawn overcame him, and his dark eyes flicked down to check his watch. It was three o' clock in the morning, and that meant that Sig had exactly an hour of sleep. The remaining five of the forty pot string would have to be completed and then he'd fetch the skipper.

_Fire enveloped the truck, the flames reaching toward the dark skies. The rain continued to fall in buckets, unable to douse the fire. A blond head rose from the drivers seat of the opposite car. The pale forehead showed indentations from impact with the leather wrapped steering wheel. The face was obscured from view due to excessive blood. The passenger appeared grey in the reflection of the rain slicked, spider webbed windshield. The strength of the impact had forced the dash to pin their legs at the knees. A piercing, female scream wailed from the rear seat. The driver hacked, as blood dribbled out from between rose painted lips. The scream doubled in intensity, the heat in the car cabin climbing, as the truck's blaze tossed embers, igniting the cars hood. A boom of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning, gave light to a previously unrecognizable face. A face that Captain Sig knew well. Very well.  
_

Jolted awake, panting, and clutching his chest, from beneath the blanket, cobalt blue orbs, blinked rapidly with confusion. With the disturbing image burned in his mind, Sig sprung up to a sitting position. Plagued by nightmares, peaceful and rejuvenating sleep wasn't an option, he knew it was time he gave his younger brother a well deserved break. Launching to his feet, the haggard captain, padded across the floor to the door. A hand lingered on the doorknob, as he fought to control his ragged breathing. Mustering a few calming inhales and exhales, a shaky hand twisted the knob, and skipper merged out into the galley. Edgar twirled around in the captain's chair, at the sound of footsteps invading the quiet wheelhouse.

"Well, if it isn't Capt'n Ahab. I was just about to get you."

The smirk on his goateed face faded, upon inspection of Sig's exhausted visage. _**Good God, did he even attempt to sleep that past hour? Hell, he looks worse, **_Edgar thought. He watched, as Sig ran a hand through his thinning blond hair on the top of his head. _**Is his hand shaking?**_ Edgar silently questioned. Undeterred from the shocked and concerned expression on his deck boss, Sig as calmly as possible approached the chair.

"Help bust out some ice after this last pot, then you all can rest."

Edgar could only nod, dumbfounded, as he relinquished the chair to Sig, exiting with his survival suit in hand. At the fading sound of footsteps, the heel of his palms met his heavy lidded eyes. Massaging them lightly, Sig removed them with a groan, shifting in his chair, to stare down at the crew monitor. Observing the crew in silence, the last pot came up with marginal double digits. Quite a change from the triple digits that covered the notebook page. Peering up at the frosted glass, he lifted himself slightly from the chair, a hand reaching out to wipe at the buildup on the window. The throttle was jammed back, causing the Northwestern to come to a crawl. Falling back into the chair, a Norwegian curse passed his thin lips. The ice pack greeted him, as far as the eye could see. The Northwestern was in the thick of it. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out how he'd come to that conclusion.

"Hell, if I knew we'd be going ice fishing, I wouldn't have signed up for this gig."

Sig perked up to the sound of Edgar's voice over the loudhailer, surprised as he was. Chancing a look at the monitor, it was void of crew. Whirling around, he gazed out the frosted wheelhouse door. He registered a yellow rain geared body just beyond it, beating ice, and armed with a sledgehammer. Reaching up with his left hand, the radio mic was unhooked, and lifted down.

"This is fishing vessel Northwestern. I've found the ice pack."


	5. Sleepless In The Ice Pack

**Disclaimer: **I do not claim ownership of the Hansens, The F/V Northwestern, her crew, or Discovery Networks. This is a creation of fiction, solely for entertainment of me and others. _Italics _denote dream sequences. **Bold** text is for thoughts. This chapter continues with the drama. **Please read and review!**

The Northwestern's main and auxiliary engines were a low, throaty rumble. The sound seemed amplified in the silent galley. Matt and Jake were seated across from one another in the wrap around booth, suspiciously quiet, that was, until Edgar came in from the deck. The door was slammed and the sounds of disrobing were heard. Striding with purpose into the galley, Edgar's face was a mix of concentration and frustration. With a furrowed brow, set jaw and mussed brown hair; the younger Hansen appeared to be of better state of mind and body, than that of the Captain. That was, until he opened his mouth.

"What is he doing up there?! I mean, dude, what the hell!!"

Edgar's stressed voice tensed with growing anger. He gestured with a hand to the ceiling towards the wheelhouse above. Matt and Jake gave him their full attention, curious to watch any insanity unfold.

"I swear he must be staving off sleep, just so we can grind and jam this boat."

Edgar ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavily. A grinding metal sound jolted him out of his angry rant, his attention flying to the hall from wince he came, knowing the engine room was calling. Metal banging, pops, and scrapes filled the now quiet galley, putting all the occupants on edge. The hull of the Northwestern was thick; it could handle most ice, but not all.

"I warned him, not to leave port on a Friday. I said Friday was bad luck. He said, he had no choice, the weather was shit, and we were fools not to leave and get a jump on the rest of the fleet. He's the skipper, he _thinks_ he knows everything."

Matt and Jake watched as Edgar dipped his shoulders, and retraced his steps, back out to the hall, towards the engine room. The boat shuttered with another close call with the ice. Jake grimaced at the sound. Matt rose from the bench, crossing the floor to the kitchen. He busied himself with the task of preparing food for the crew.

"I don't know about you, but I'm staying out of it. There's bad juju on this boat, I don't want to add to it."

Jake nodded in agreement.

"I know better than to challenge the Captain's decisions. If the consequences are anything like Edgar's, I'd be better off with my mouth shut, following orders."

The galley was filled with momentary laughter, as the deckhands shared a laugh.

Meanwhile, up in the wheelhouse, Sig was on high alert, frazzled nerves and all. His right hand feathered the throttle, while his left lightly tapped the rudder control. The agonizing speed of less than five knots was eating up on his reserve energy. Lifting both hands from the controls, he picked up the pack of Marlboros with his right, and with his left, flipped the top. Extracting a single cigarette, he tossed the pack to the desk, then with his left, swiped up his lighter. The tip was aglow in no time, and Sig took a deep drag off it. He had faith in the calming factor that smoking usually brought him, but coupled with the lack of sleep, it wasn't working. Snow flurries were on the bow, and as the creeping ship continued its slow advance, the flurries morphed into full blown snow and sleet. The windows were a fog of white; Sig had a hell of a time navigating through what he couldn't see past the bow. As if he possessed some brother borne telepathy, Sig groaned at the sound of heavy footsteps, knowing who the intruder was already.

"Just zip it, Edgar. I don't want to hear it."

Judging from the icy, no nonsense statement, Edgar was certain his Captain was less focused on him and more on the danger that lay around them. Opillio fishing was risky; they all knew that, but avoiding getting trapped in the ice pack that was essential. Edgar crossed behind Sig, choosing to sit down on the brown leather co-captain's chair, located on the far left of the wheelhouse. Stuffing his hands into the front pocket of his yellow, Helly Hansen hoodie, Edgar turned his head, prepared to shoot back a retort.

"I could do that again, go down to the kitchen and bring you a peace offering, coffee perhaps?"

Sig rolled his eyes; he didn't have time for sarcasm or games. Out of the corner of his eye, the captain caught sight of a massive twenty foot chunk of ice. The Northwestern's starboard barely missed grazing it. Sig let out a shuttering breath, and then took a drag off his cigarette.

"Edgar, go downstairs and get Norman to go in the engine room to keep an eye on our hull."

Edgar responded with a quick 'roger', scurrying out of his perch, making his way to the stairs. Before he even descended a single step, Sig's voice halted him.

"Y'know, that peace offering sounds nice right about now. After that, rally the crew to start beating this ice off."

Edgar disappeared down the stair case, emerged into the galley, and caught a glimpse of Matt preparing the crew's meal. It smelled of a mixture of fish, potatoes, and vegetables. The cook was behind the stove, a spoon in his hand, stirring something in a pot. Edgar sent him a nod, walking past him to fetch a mug, from a set that was hanging on hooks beneath a wall cabinet. Armed with a clean cup, he went to the coffee machine, lifting the pot and pouring a considerable amount of thick black sludge to the rim. Edgar grimaced at the lack of any additives, but it was just the way Sig liked it. After all, he got his sugar intake from the chocolate.

"Set that stuff on low, and get your gear on. We're about to re-enter hell. Sig wants the North Pole off the deck."

Catching a whiff of fresh black coffee, Sig's stomach growled, causing a groan of yearning to escape his throat. Footsteps announced the return of Edgar, as he offered his captain a much needed morale booster. **Hopefully, this coffee will take the edge off, if nothing it will keep his eyelids propped open, **Edgar thought, the clink of the ceramic bottom of the cup signaled its arrival on the control board. Calloused hands greedily snatched it up, tipping the rim against thin lips. Downing half, Sig placed the mug next to the already empty one. Retrieving the smoldering cigarette from the ashtray, he fitted it between his lips, and breathed in a deep lungful of smoke. Edgar's voice could be heard faintly in the galley, barking out orders, probably to Norman. Just beyond the wheel house door, the clunking of sledgehammer against ice could be heard. Shifting in his tattered seat, Sig leaned forward, his jean clad ass hovering over the chair, and simultaneously pressing his lower half flush to the edge of the control board. His pale face was mere inches from the ice caked glass, cobalt blues struggling to see through the heavy sleet, to catch any potential dangers before it was too late. To his surprise, the snow eased up, revealing a full night sky, and a sea full of chunks as big as icebergs, and clear water, yards away, out of reach. Wearily, as if defeated, Sig slouched back down into his chair, taking his left hand from the rudder control, to run though the thinning strands of blonde on the top of his head. One last puff was taken from the cigarette, and then it was snubbed out into the crowded butt laden ashtray. An exhausting yawn quickly followed, and in its wake, his eyelids drooped, half mast. Cobalt blues dipped south, catching the time on his gold nugget watch. If his calculations were correct, he'd been in the chair now, for thirty hours straight. Something would have to budge soon, either his frail mind or the boat, but something had to give.

The cold wind bit at his exposed face, reminding him of just how hellish the Opillio season could get. Young Jake worked on auto pilot, grunting with each hefty swing, the end of the sledgehammer beating the coating of ice off the coiler. Nearby, Nick manned a shovel, scooping up and heaving overboard, the chunks that Matt, cleared up at the rail and on the deck. Edgar was isolated from the rest of the crew, on the bow, using a large eight foot iron pole, with a wedged head, to pry the ice from the wheelhouse windows. When he finished, Edgar turned, looking out over the bow, taking in stock of their progress in leaving the ice pack. The sea was littered with ice, the only salvation from it, was yards away. Edgar nearly had to strain his eyes to catch open water.

"Edgar, clear the top of the wheelhouse."

The deck boss obeyed his skipper's orders, exiting the bow and trading out the large ice pick, for a sledgehammer. Taking to the iron ladder, Edgar climbed up to the landing overlooking the deck, then up another ladder, to the top of the wheelhouse. He began methodically whacking away at the large coating of ice, until the white paint of the Northwestern could be seen. He was three quarters of the way done, when their light started to flicker. The sodium lights on the mast, were acting up like they were on a pulse rhythm. Work came to a grinding halt on the deck, Matt, Jake and Nick's eyes were glued to the mast. As the sledgehammer, hit the wheelhouse roof, cracking the ice, the lights gave out, bathing the Northwestern in total darkness. A loud thump resounded from the ceiling, startling Sig awake.

"What the hell just happened, Edgar?!"

Sig's tired voice boomed over the loudhailer in question. Edgar shrugged to himself, unable to clarify the situation without researching the faults. Picking up his sledgehammer, Edgar left the wheelhouse roof, and climbed down to the landing. A half asleep Sig whirled in his chair, to the sound of the opening wheelhouse door. Edgar had a look of tired indignation on his features.

"Looks like any sleep I've been hoping for is called off. The sodium's just quit."


	6. Trials and Tribulations

**Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of the Hansens, Deadliest Catch, The fishing vessel **_**Northwestern, **_**her crew, Discovery Networks, or Original Productions. There will be bad language in this chapter, graphic imagery and the possibility of violence. You have been warned! Please remember to read AND review.  
**

Edgar left the wheelhouse with a heavy sigh. Muttering under his breath, he descended the stairs to the upper deck and stopped at the rail. Hopping over the rail, he mounted the mast ladder and began climbing. Reaching the mast head, Edgar examined each cluster of sodium lights, checking the housings first, then peering into the glass, checking the status of the bulbs. The inspection yielded bad results: each bulb was black, leading Edgar to make a slow retreat back down to get tools and fresh bulbs. Re-entering the wheelhouse, he descended the stairs to the galley. His nostrils took in a hefty whiff of the prepared meal, but he shrugged off the impulse to stop his current duty and give in to his hunger, because the deck and Sig needed the light. Leaving the rest of the crew, minus Sig, to eat, Edgar donned a pair of heavy duty ear muffs, which were hanging by hooks on the wall beside the entrance to the engine room, before taking to the stairs to the bowels of the hull. In a section of the room, to the right of the growling yellow Caterpillar engine, in a makeshift workshop area, Edgar found a case of replacement bulbs. Hooking them under his arm, he grabbed up an orange tool box and exited, climbing the stairs. Closing and locking the door behind him, Edgar re-hooked the ear muffs to the wall, and went back to the mast.

In the wheelhouse, illuminated by the soft glow of a reading light, Sig was overcome by a yawn. The recent down time, created by faulty lighting, presented a window of opportunity for the crew to sit down to a hot meal. Stubborn, Sig refused to eat, ignoring the twists and turns of a rumbling stomach. Gritting his teeth, he had been forced to halt the vessel's progress in pancake ice, and could only wait until he had light by which to see to guide them to open water. Grabbing the box of Marlboro's from the control table and tapping a cigarette out, he jammed the stick between his thin lips and tossed the pack next to his coffee cup. Scooping up his lighter, he lit the end of the cig and took a long drag, letting the tendrils of smoke rise out of his nostrils. The lighter was deposited next to his smokes. Footsteps startled him and he rounded in his chair, watching as Jake appeared in the open hatch to the stairs.

"Hey, are you going to eat? If not, Norman's having seconds," Jake asked. Sig absently gnawed on his lower lip before taking a tug off his cigarette. "What about Edgar?" Sig inquired, avoiding the question, while tapping the cigarette over the ashtray. Jake saw right through his captain's attempts, and Sig was taken aback as the young deckhand looked defiant. "I'm not worried about Edgar, I'm worried about you." Jake's voice wavered with concern. With the throttle control set in neutral, Jake watched as Sig rose out of his chair and stood. Jake saw in Sig's eyes that the concern had won over the usual steel reserve and the greenhorn turned and descended the stairs to the galley, with Sig hot on his heels.

"I dared him to do it, and look, he comes back unscathed," Matt joked from the bench at the galley table, watching as Jake took a seat on the bench across from him.

"Edgar was just about to fashion an IV feeding tube straight into your gut. Damn, and I wanted to see that too," Norman said with mock dejection as he washed his plate in the kitchen.

"Children please, no bickering." Sig retorted as he took a seat next to Jake. Norman came out of the kitchen and placed a newly washed plate before Sig. "Norman, take wheel watch," Sig ordered and watched as Norman exited the room without a word. The plate before him was quickly piled with food: salted cod, mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables. Jake stared, his mouth agape, at the sheer volume of food that Sig jammed in his mouth, amazed the captain wasn't choking.

"Looks like somebody was starving themselves," Nick said upon observing Sig chow down, having come from his stateroom and while making a beeline to the coffee machine.

"Remember to breathe; I'm rusty with the Heimlich maneuver," Edgar declared as he entered from the deck, the tool box in one hand; with the other, he sealed the door after him. Walking through the ready room, past the galley, Edgar drew on the ear muffs and went down to deposit the tool box back at the work table in the engine room.

In no time, Edgar joined the table. Matt slipped out off the bench to get a clean plate for him. As soon as Matt placed the plate down, Edgar started filling it with what Sig hadn't polished off. Washing the food down with a cup of milk that was in front of him, Sig peered across the table at Edgar. Clearing his throat, he posted a question. "You get the lights working?"

Edgar merely nodded in response, too busy with eating to stop to speak. Sig finished up what remained on his plate, before taking it and the glass to the sink. Turning the water on hot, Sig grabbed the sponge and loaded it with dish soap. Lathering the plate, he started to scrub the food particles off of it. The mundane activity allowed Sig to slip into a day dream. Lost in the vision of the running water, his sleep-deprived mind slipped back into the tendrils of a haunting nightmare. The water morphed into that of the water jetting from a fireman's hose dousing the flames of a car wreck, his family's car wreck. The pain, oh the searing pain, shot through him at the sight.

At the sound of breaking glass, Edgar's head snapped up, and he looked eagerly at Sig.

"Shit, Fuck!" Sig shouted, infuriated. Curious, Edgar slipped out from behind the table and approached the kitchen with caution. From over Sig's shoulder, Edgar first surveyed the sink, seeing the plate broken in two, and the cup, which it had landed on, shattered to shards. Red swirled with the water down the drain. Shifting to the side, he saw why his brother's head was down and the fierce concentration straining his features. The calloused fingers of his left hand were busy trying to pick glass shards from his right. He wasn't doing so well, Edgar observed, mostly due to the trembling in his hands. Sig was mumbling under his breath, incoherently. Edgar tried to decipher a single syllable but alas was at a loss and gave up. "Stop. Sig. Let me help you," Edgar spoke up, unable to continue watching the madness. "Don't be a stubborn ass."

The plate slipped from Sig's slack hands. In that moment, he 'saw' the bodies charred in the blackened chassis of the car, the firemen's powerful streams of water jetting over the still-smoldering wreckage. The sting of unshed tears shocked him, and in an instant, his hands scrambled to catch the plate. It was too late, and what he gathered up in his hands wasn't solid, it was shattered and broken. The cup had fared worse than the plate, not breaking into two, but into millions. In the confusion, Sig's right hand had become a pincushion of sorts to the glass cup as he had tried to save the plate; instead, soapy fingers lost hold, and a hand was wedged between plate and cup. The side of the plate struck the stainless steel sink basin hard, cracking in the middle. The sharp edge of one side sliced along the width of Sig's right palm. The back of his hand suffered various cuts. Turning his left hand over, he saw the worst cut of all, a deep laceration over his gold wedding band. Shocked, his superstitious mind was quickly weaving a connection between his severely sliced ring finger and the dream death of his family ... of his wife. It signified the end of his marriage. That thought alone brought on uncontrollable shaking in both hands. His eyes were wet and glistening with unshed tears.

"Shit, Fuck!" The obscenities flew from his lips in an instant as he went about the task of picking the glass from his flesh with unstable fingers. He had heard Edgar set his fork down and slide from the table. The footsteps echoed in his ears as he frantically tried to use stubby nails to pick glass from calloused flesh. He didn't want or need his younger brother hovering over him. He could do this. And that was when he felt Edgar's eyes over his shoulder, his breath panting down his neck. For a better view, Edgar moved to his side, and then offered help. Ordinarily Sig would calmly refuse, knowing he could handle it himself, but with frayed nerves, a couple of bloody hands, topped off with sleep deprivation he just lost it. It only took Edgar asking if he was okay. Sig growled deep in his throat, turning on his brother, projecting his pent up anger and emotion at him. Sig thrust his left palm into Edgar's right shoulder, sending him stumbling backwards, only stopping when his butt hit the kitchen counter behind him.

Edgar had seen the flash in Sig's eyes, but it was too late. A blood-streaked palm slapped his shoulder, the force propelling him back into the counter. "Chill out dude, I mean, what the hell?!" Edgar spat. They stared uncomfortably at one another for a moment, Sig clearly breathing fire, his nostrils flaring with each heavy intake of breath and exhaling through a barely parted mouth. Edgar listened to the sound and it was hitching on wheezing. He wanted to know the catalyst of this whole deal, and he knew it sure as shit wasn't solely about the broken plate and cup in the sink. One thing he knew for sure was that Sig hadn't been getting restful sleep, and that had to be part of it. He blinked as he watched as Sig closed in on him, halting when he was a foot away. Sig's finger poked into the center of his chest, grinding the blunt nail into him, to punctuate each word said.

"Stay." Poke. "The." Poke. "Fuck." Poke. "Away." Poke. "From." Poke. "Me." End poke. Sig saw Edgar's eyes drift south to the hand poking him and then back up to his face and the back down again. Edgar deftly nodded. Satisfied and through with him, Sig withdrew his patronizing finger and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving Edgar alone with a mess in the sink and the water running. Taking the stairs two at a time, it wasn't until he entered the wheelhouse he heard Edgar's biting retort.|

"Is out on deck far enough for you?!" Edgar shouted from the kitchen as he turned off the running water and carefully began extracting the broken bits and shards in the sink and passing them off into the garbage bin on the floor. "Asshole," Edgar muttered under his breath as he continued cleaning up.

"What the hell was that all about?"

Edgar looked across the room and found Jake standing in the galley, hair disheveled and rubbing his eyes with a fist. All the yelling had stirred Jake from what little of a nap he had been allotted since his meal. "Oh, nothing," Edgar began, toeing the full garbage bin to the corner of the kitchen. "Somebody pissed in Sig's coffee." Edgar had a smirk pull at his lips when the kid made a face. He laughed out loud when Jake opened his mouth, then thought about it and decided not to say anything. "Some things are better left unsaid. Case in point, Junior." Edgar nodded and pointed a finger towards the ceiling and the wheelhouse above.

Sig saw Norman turn in the captain's chair upon hearing the footsteps invading the wheelhouse. He regarded Sig with an unreadable expression, apparently unfazed by Sig's face projecting his shitty mood. Norman was extracting himself from the chair when Sig's angry voice cut through the silence like a knife. "Get the fuck out of my wheelhouse, now." Norman narrowed his eyes, but remained mute, simply nodding in agreement and headed to the stair hatch. Sig crossed the floor and took his place in his chair. Norman paused at the stairs, turning his head and shooting a look over his shoulder, watching as Sig lit a cigarette. "Get the boys to beat off to the ice," Sig growled. Norman cocked his head in question, but obeyed, heading down the stairs to relay the captain's orders.

"Sig told me to tell you guys to go beat off to the ice." Norman paused, totally unfazed by the obvious mixed message. "But, that could just be the sleep deprivation talking." He paused once more, this time shaking his head. "I don't know." Norman shrugged and headed past the galley to the ready room, suiting up in his _Northwestern_ emblazoned slickers. Edgar roared with laughter, happy to laugh at his brothers' misfortune, as he moved to join Norman and began suiting up. Jake soon joined the Hansen brothers after waking Nick and Matt. Edgar released the lock on the door and opened it up, being the first to be greeted by the subzero temperatures on deck. "Boys, it's time to kick this winter wonderland square in the ass. Before Capt'n Ahab gets us all swallowed by Moby Dick, or before he invents a whole new meaning to the word, 'beating off'." Edgar chuckled. "Cause I've so totally been there, done that." Edgar handed out the sledgehammers and the crew got to work.

Up in the wheelhouse, Sig had left his chair and crossed the floor to the center of the room, bending down to pick up the first aid kit underneath the emergency steering wheel. With the kit in hand, Sig returned to the chair and began rifling through it. Picking out the gauze and tape, he wound it around his right hand, careful not to bandage it up too thick to where his hand would be useless. The newly bandaged hand lifted the tape, while the left yanked a strip free. Lowering his face to his wrapped hand, he took the loose end of the gauze in his teeth and pulled it tight, while his left hand secured the tape to the area just below where he was tugging it. Satisfied with the outcome, he turned his attention to his left hand. Unrolling the gauze around his ring finger, he ripped it at a predetermined spot and applied tape to fasten it together. Stitches would come at a later date; he didn't think he could spare the concentration needed to thread floss through a needle without having another insane dream inspired hallucination episode. Replacing everything back into the kit, he closed it and returned it back below the emergency steering wheel. Back in the comfort of his captain's chair and letting out a rough sigh, he picked up his forgotten cigarette from the ash tray, re-lit it and took a drag. Just outside his frosted wheelhouse door, he saw Edgar, illuminated by the newly replaced sodiums, attacking the icy hell which encased his beloved vessel. Turning forward once again, he squinted as he peered out the frosted wheelhouse windows and found his mind wandering yet again. This time it hadn't anything to do with his haunting dreams, but the predicament they were in. Getting out of the ice, not just safely but keeping a sane mind, was the first priority. The crew didn't need a Captain who was turning into a head trip. "Fuck me, I'm beat." Sig grumbled to himself, tiredly rubbing his left eye with his left hand, as he put the _Northwestern_ in gear and gave her some power.


	7. Dangers Without and Within

**Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of the Hansens, Deadliest Catch, The fishing vessel **_**Northwestern, **_**her crew, Discovery Networks, or Original Productions. There will be bad language in this chapter and graphic imagery. You have been warned! **_Italics are for thoughts. _**REMEMBER TO READ AND REVIEW!**

Sig's weary eyes squinted and stared out the frosted windows. To his relief, he spotted open water; they were within sight of the edge of the ice. Heaving a ragged sigh, his heavily-bandaged right hand loosened up on the throttle. Pain blossomed in his palm, the wounds still fresh, needing to heal. Hissing a breath through clenched teeth, Sig's eyes dropped south, examining the blood soaked bandages. It had taken the Northwestern five hours to slowly and methodically muscle her way through the ice pack, and now, with the danger nearly behind him, damage control could take place. Lifting his hand from the throttle, he peeled the tape away, loosening the gauze. Unraveling it and letting it fall to the control table, he inspected the raised and puckered, red-tinted flesh of his palm. The injuries were still so new that scabs hadn't even set in. Shaking his head at it, Sig carefully used that hand to pick up his Marlboros and flip open the top. Extracting a stick, he inserted it between his lips. With his left hand, he scrabbled up the lighter and lit the tip. Tossing the lighter back to the controls, Sig eyed his left hand and the gauze that wound round his ring finger, right above his wedding band. _It was only a dream. Only a dream, Sig. Don't you think too much into it._

*****

"So, Sig totally wigged out on you?" Jake questioned, leaning forward with both forearms on the galley table, eager for more.

Edgar gazed across the table, at Jake and his obvious anticipation. Before answering, he looped a finger through the handle of the _Northwestern _coffee cup and raised it to his lips, taking a drink. "I'd chalk it up to a bad case of BSD, Junior," Edgar replied, diverting his eyes to the swirling liquid left in his cup.

Sensing the awkward pause, Edgar tilted his head up, searching the perplexed expression on Jake's face.

"It means Bering Sea Dementia," he explained, receiving another blank face, he elaborated, "It's when you forego sleep so long, you start hallucinating. Long story short, you start seeing  
shit that isn't there. And it's never pretty."

Jake straightened his posture, pressing his back fully to the bench; the wheels were turning in his head.

"Why doesn't Sig just take a break and sleep?"

Edgar starting laughing, causing Jake to wrinkle his face in confusion.

Norman, having only heard Jake's reply as he emerged from his stateroom, interjected, "Sig's too stubborn to sleep. It'd be like admitting to failure."

Jake and Edgar turned their attention to the normally quiet Hansen, who was dressed in a wrinkled, maroon Helly Hansen hoodie, distressed Levi jeans, and a matching worn Helly Hansen baseball cap, as he padded across the galley in his socks. Norman passed the table and went into the kitchen. Picking a _Northwestern _mug from a hook underneath the wall cabinet, Norman filled it with a fresh batch of coffee from the machine.

"You should see if Sig needs a refill," Edgar piped up as he raised his cup for another sip. To this, Jake started choking on a laugh.

Norman cocked an eyebrow and turned his head toward the table. Furrowing his brow, his eyes drifted from Jake, to Edgar, to Jake and back to Edgar again. His attention wavered, finding the swirling black sludge in the cup more interesting. It was void of any condiments, such as creamer, milk or sugar. It would be perfect for Sig's tastes.

"Yeah, wouldn't want him mixing innuendo with orders again," Norman muttered, lifting his head and leaving the galley to climb the stairs to the wheelhouse.

*****

Norman watched as the creaking stairs alerted Sig to his presence. Pausing to stand in the hatch at the top, he saw Sig briefly shoot a glare over his shoulder. Clearing his throat, Norman crossed the floor, arm out straight, offering the coffee to his brother. Stopping beside his chair, Norman held the coffee patiently until Sig could tear his eyes away from the ice. Norman took the time to peer out the frosted windows, noting the sight of open water not but a stone's throw away.

A tug on the coffee mug brought Norman's attention to Sig. It was the first time Norman had seen how the stress of the trip was taking its toll. Under the illumination of the controls and monitors, Sig's visage appeared ghoulish and a shade paler that normal. The rings under his eyes were a light gray, and a fading black and purple bruise marred the skin of his right temple. Add to that, he had a few days' growth of stubble and his hair was mussed.

Sig grunted, pulling on the coffee cup again; this time, Norman released it, allowing the captain to take a much-needed drink. Taking advantage of the situation, Norman turned on his heel, shuffling his sock clad feet toward the stairwell. He was about to descend when Sig's voice halted him.

"She couldn't have survived that fire. No one could have." Sig's voice was a mere whisper, wavering on a sob.

*****

The _Northwestern's _bow was the first to poke free from the ice into open water, signaling the end of the pack and, hopefully, the end of his nightmares. Sig sniffled, picking up his forgotten cigarette in the ash tray and re-lighting it. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled the smoke out his nose and shook his head, sniffling. "I mean, there wasn't anything I could do." He paused, a small tremor starting in his throttle hand. "Nothing," he growled, adding more power as the _Northwestern's _stern cleared the last of the ice. "It doesn't make any sense that I saw it, y'know," Sig said out loud to no one in particular. He heard footsteps descending the stairwell and knew that Norman had finally had enough of his insane ramblings. But, to Sig, it wasn't just talk, it was reality. Could it be true, the events that had felt so real and tangible in his dream becoming stark and bitter truth? Sig shook his head, his eyes brimming with unshed tears, as he removed his hand from the throttle to rap his knuckle hard a few times on the wood of the wall surrounding him. "I shouldn't talk about this shit. It's nothing but bad luck."


	8. Dazed and Confused

**Disclaimer: I do not claim ownership of the Hansens, Deadliest Catch, The fishing vessel **_**Northwestern, **_**her crew, Discovery Networks, or Original Productions. There will be bad language in this chapter and graphic imagery. You have been warned! **_Italics are for thoughts. _**REMEMBER TO READ AND REVIEW!**

Sig lifted the coffee cup to his lips and took a sip. He gazed down into the cup, furrowing his brow a bit and shook his head, placing the cup in the wooden holder at his right. It tasted a bit funny, but Sig shrugged it off and slowed the _Northwestern _as the boat approached a string of pots he left out there soaking earlier. Nervous energy filled him, the anticipation of what could be or wouldn't be in the pots bothered him. A pessimistic brain told him that there wouldn't be shit, the numbers would be low and it would spell failure for the whole string. Sig grunted to himself and reached across the control table, scooping up his Marlboro's and tapping out a single stick. Shoving it between his lips, he pulled his right hand from the throttle and scooped up his Zippo. Igniting the tip, Sig tossed the lighter down and lightly coiled his hand around the throttle. Sucking deeply from the cigarette, Sig turned his head, eying the crew cam monitor.

Pulling his gaze away from the monitor, he rotated the chair to the right, to offer a gaze at the orange pot buoy's floating near the starboard side. His vision started to get blurry, and he rapidly blinked and shook his head trying to clear his head.

"What the fuck was that?" Sig questioned, out loud to himself. Plucking the cigarette from his mouth, he placed it in the ashtray and hooked a finger around the cup handle, lifting the coffee to his lips. Taking a greedy gulp of it, he narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the beverage again before setting it in its holder. Though the sea was calm, Sig found it hard to keep sitting up straight. Swaying slightly in his chair, he reached up, fumbling for the microphone; he turned it on, and pulled down the receiver.

"Uh….how many are in….i-in…. Fuck!" Sig halted his line of questioning, frustrated that the sentence didn't come out the way he had in it in his mind. Giving it another go, after working his mouth silently, he tried again.

"Uh…Eggar…what was in that….uh…p-pot?" Sig asked, swaying hard to the right, gripping the left chair arm hard, in attempt to keep himself from completely falling. Sig's head felt like a bowling ball, top heavy and his eyelids fell to half mast. Blinking again, he tugged against the mic already in his hands.

"Six hundred. Six, zero, zero." Edgar replied. Sig picked up his pencil and started to jot down the numbers. Shaking his head and coming out of a daze, Sig attempted to finish the numbers. Severely concentrating, Sig found himself struggling to keep from falling asleep. Lifting his head up, he blinked, trying to keep vigilant, but failing miserably. Sig wavered in his seat, slumping forward, his arm falling over the buzzer, as his forehead fell to rest on his forearm. The buzzer sounded continuously.

Edgar from the front of the sorting table dropped the crab he was sorting and wretched his head to the right, gazing up towards the wheelhouse with confusion. His face wrinkled in dismay, and he heard Norman chuckle.

"Finally, it's about time." Norman said, from his spot near the hydraulics. Edgar looked in his direction, with a question forming on his features. Edgar then hears the audible thump on the hailer as Sig had either fallen down or hit his head on the glass.

"Norm, take over here." Edgar yelled and started across the deck, heading up the ladder to the upper deck and the stairs to the wheelhouse. "And, he's down for the count." Edgar muttered out loud as he lifted Sig back into his chair by his shoulders. Upon examination of his brother's peaceful face, he noted the soft snore and knew Sig was out cold. He silently wondered what Norman was up to and made a note to ask him. But, he had a sneaky suspicion that Norman had a hand in Sig's unconscious state. Placing his hands under Sig's arms, he started to hoist him out of the seat. Pausing mid way, Edgar released him and turned on the hailer and pulled the mic down. _Damn, Sig cut down on the chocolate a bit. You're heavy as hell!_

"Junior, I need your help."

It didn't take long for the youngest member of the crew to arrive in the wheelhouse, eagerly popping in through the staircase like a prairie dog. Once he saw Edgar, and then the captain, his brow furrowed. Edgar gestured him over with a hand, with each of them grabbing an arm, they collectively hoisted the skipper from the chair. "Grab his legs." Edgar demanded, as he started descending the stairs backward, with Jake taking up the slack.

"It's time for bed, sleeping beauty." Edgar grunted, as he struggled with Jakes help, to drag his brother down the wheelhouse stairs to the captain's stateroom. Hooking an arm around his brother's chest, Edgar fiddled with the doorknob, and kicked the door open. Carrying him halfway into the room, Edgar groaned and they both dropped him onto the bed. Sig landed on his stomach, half on and half off the bunk. Wiping his hands off on his slickers, he scoffed at the terrible state his brother was in. Glistening with sweat, marked with bruises and stained with blood, Sig looked like a mess. Edgar exited the room with Jake, shutting the door and headed to the wheelhouse to take over the skippering duties.


End file.
